


Salvation is Created (In the Midst of the Earth)

by SpaceCadetGlow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angst, Asexuality, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demons, Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angels, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Metaphysics, No Sex, No Smut, Pining, Redemption, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Salvation, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Theology, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCadetGlow/pseuds/SpaceCadetGlow
Summary: "For a demon, it was the deep ache of being laid bare and shown a mercy he did not deserve.  It was the agony of having his corporeal form peeled away so he could be seen exactly as he is, and being loved anyway."  Based on my headcanon that Crowley started calling Aziraphale "angel" because it's physically painful for a demon to speak an angel's name.  Touching an angel is so much worse, and so much better.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley remembers the name he’d had Before. He wasn’t _created_ as Crawly, after all. Before the questioning, and the casting out, and the agony of Falling, and the “well, shit” moment when he’d hit bottom, his eyes burning golden and newly black feathers faintly smoking, and for fuck’s sake, he barely even _knew_ Lucifer…

Crowley remembers the name he’d had Before. He hasn’t spoken it aloud since the world was made, not since The Being Formerly Known as Lucifer had asked. Good old Lucifer really delivered when it came to big ideas, but as for the details, the Devil most certainly was not in them. And in some hideous parody of the Naming, he’d replied, “That will not do for the part thou art to play. A serpent thou shalt be, smooth-scaled, fork-tongued, thy purpose to insinuate thyself into mortal minds, sowing doubt and discord. Thy name is… Crawly.” 

Sodding uncreative higher-ups.

When he’d told his new boss his Created name, it had stung in his mouth. It took him by surprise, made his eyes water for a moment. Later, when he was alone, he’d tried it again, and then because he was nothing if not inquisitive, tried saying the names of some of his former colleagues. _Uriel. Michael. Gabriel._ It was like touching a hot stove, each name too pure to be spoken by his damnèd mouth without punishment. 

The door was shut, everything about his former existence now inaccessible. He tries to forget what happened Before (he can't entirely, of course, the cruelest part of God's punishment), and make the best of his new situation. Heaven was dull as all get-out, angels were practically intolerable, but Hell was… well, Hell. When word came from the Boss that it was time for him to infiltrate Eden, he’d jumped at the chance for a change of scenery, as much as a being that currently lacked legs could jump.

And then he’d met the most maddeningly _interesting_ angel. 

Aziraphale talks to him without so much as a “Begone, foul serpent” or a “Get thee behind me.” He doesn’t seem to mind the company of a demon, tolerates him, and maybe even likes him a bit. He seems to enjoy living in the world as much as Crowley does, sees the beauty and takes pleasure in it, when most angels can’t see past their own bloody halos. 

Aziraphale’s name burns in his mouth too, so he mostly calls him "angel". It had been a practical matter, and he liked the slight sneer in it. “Yes, well thwarted, angel,” he'd say. “Angel, that toga’s twenty years out of date.” “It’s called a roller coaster, angel, try to keep up.” 

Aziraphale never calls him “demon,” probably because he’s so blessèd polite. It’s all “my dear” and other such soft nonsense, as though he isn’t one of the Fallen. Sees the good in everyone, he does. On some level Crowley appreciates the kindness, although one day it uncomfortably occurs to him that he wouldn’t mind being called “demon” under certain extremely specific circumstances.

The first time he touched Aziraphale, it was an accident. Aziraphale had passed him a bottle of date wine, yammering on about some bloke called Zoroaster who had some positively fascinating ideas about humans and their right of choice, and their fingers had brushed. Startled, Crowley had gasped and nearly dropped the bottle. 

“Sorry, angel. Static electricity,” he’d forced out. 

“Static _what_?” Aziraphale had asked, peering at him curiously.

“Give it a few thousand years, you’ll see. We’ve got plans for it,” he said vaguely. “Telemarketers. Billboards.” 

It had not been like static electricity, which angels and demons did not experience, having their own otherworldly energy fields. Were he a human, it would have been like plunging his hand into frigid water, like holding his hand over a candle for a fraction too long, like being pricked by a needle on each fingertip at once. 

For a demon, it was the deep ache of being laid bare and shown a mercy he did not deserve. It was the agony of having his corporeal form peeled away so he could be seen exactly as he is, and being loved anyway.

Over time, calling Aziraphale “angel” becomes a habit, and if it sounds a bit like a pet name, if occasionally people get the wrong idea and it makes Aziraphale blush, well, that’s all part of the fun. As is throwing an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders when they’ve both had too much to drink, relishing the flush in the angel’s cheeks and the way he looks when Crowley makes him laugh, when they can both forget that they are supposed to be enemies. 

What isn’t part of the fun, what Crowley takes deadly seriously, is exploring the sensation of touching the angel, skin to skin. He doesn’t dare try it often, and is ever so careful not to let it happen by mistake, because the power Aziraphale has frightens and fascinates him. He’ll make it seem casual or accidental, a touching of hands when they’re walking side by side, or sharing a drink, or looking over a book that Aziraphale insists on showing him. He braces himself for the impact each time, no longer surprised by the rush of divinity pouring into the void inside of him where God’s love used to be, a drink of cool water just out of reach. It hurts, in the way that looking at the sun hurts, in the way that disappointing a loved one hurts, but it feels right, it feels _just,_ and in these moments he is uncharacteristically ashamed of who and what he is. Once he had been bold enough to brush a white-blond curl from his angel’s face on a windy day, and he had almost wept from the sensation, grateful for his dark glasses as the force of holiness incarnate knocked him over like a wave.

He had not known Aziraphale before the Fall, and he thinks it’s better that way, nothing to compare against. Aziraphale never asked him his Created name, and he wonders if his new name tastes foul and ashen in Aziraphale’s mouth. He changes Crawly to Crowley mostly for himself, just enough of a change to make it _his_ and not his Master’s, and takes pleasure in the way that Aziraphale says his new name. Does Aziraphale feel anything but warm skin when they touch? Perhaps smooth scales under his soft hands, or something worse? One night he wakes up in his bed with a start, horrified to think of the angel feeling the dark pull of the Pit when they touch hands. He avoids Aziraphale for nearly a century after this, fearing that he might be subjecting him to even the palest shadow of the Fall. Would Aziraphale tell him if he did? 

Aziraphale never so much as hints at this possibility, never flinches from him, and greets him with, “There you are, dear boy, what have you been up to all this time?” when they next meet. Crowley decides that angels are above such things, but he can’t be sure without asking, and there’s no way he’s starting _that_ conversation. 

Crowley wonders what would happen to him if he touched Aziraphale for more than a fleeting moment. If he took his hand and held on, or ran his fingers through the angel’s halo of curls, or loosened his collar to touch the soft skin underneath, how long would he last before it became unbearable? If he pressed his lips to that prim, pretty mouth, would it burn his forked tongue with all the righteous fury of a flaming sword? 

Of course, his angel would never allow such a thing. Oh, he could tempt Aziraphale if he wanted to. That’s what he is, the First Tempter, the Serpent, cast out of Heaven and shaped by Hellfire to bring about the Fall of Man (even if it had only taken the merest suggestion, _lovely day, isn't it, and don't those apples look tasty?_ ) Most of his work here on Earth is of a more subtle nature, dozens of minor inconveniences compounding in ways that other demons cannot appreciate. The full depths of his power are largely dormant and untapped. If he really wanted to, he has thought in his bitterest, darkest moments, he could slither into the crevasses of Aziraphale’s mind and find those little loose threads in the seams of his faith, slide right through them and turn tiny fleeting uncertainties into full-fledged Doubts. He could tempt Aziraphale right into his bed, preying on the angel’s own latent traits, turning his taste for the finer things into proper hedonism. He could press his whole body against his angel’s and punish himself as much as he could stand, grasp blindly and greedily at the glimpses of salvation that Aziraphale embodies. If Crowley clung to him and resisted the self-preserving urge to pull away, would it eventually destroy him from the inside out like a swig of holy water? Or would he only drag Aziraphale down with him? He could find out. He could make it happen. 

If he wanted to.

But then what? It’s all an illusion, he knows. He doesn’t want to return to Heaven, even if it were possible, sod the lot of them. Salvation is for humans, and however selfish Crowley might be, he knows Falling only happens in one direction. But Aziraphale is all of the best parts of Heaven without all the dull bits; he is the parts Crowley tries and fails to forget, the safety, the love. The angel's charm comes from his innocence, his delight at human behavior, his curious little habits, and even his stubborn belief in the Ineffable Effing Plan. He won't let that become tainted, can't chance it. He won’t be the reason Aziraphale Falls. 

What he already has is more than he had ever hoped for, salvation made in the midst of the earth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like fanfic of fanfic.... I was going to leave chapter one as a standalone, but decided to explore the concept further since people seemed to like it, and I thought it would be a fun challenge to explore on a metaphysical level. I'm keeping the "asexuality" tag because there's no literal sexual content, though there are D/s dynamics, and you could read the Weird Metaphysical Shit metaphorically if you wanted to. I'm not here to tell anyone how to have a good time.

Aziraphale is _glorious_ before him, radiating golden light, wings unfurled in all their heavenly splendor. Crowley looks up at him from where he kneels on the floor, squinting behind his dark glasses. The angel’s face is strong and serene, haloed in white-gold curls, all traces of the harried shopkeep smoothed away. He’s too bright, too beautiful. 

“Say my name.”

A shudder. “Aziraphale,” he says, mouth dry. The holy name stings like a slap, and he drops his gaze. 

“That’s good,” the angel approves. He reaches down and Crowley freezes, barely daring to breathe, both wishing and fearing that Aziraphale will touch his face. The angel gently removes his glasses; they dissipate into the light that surrounds him, and Crowley is not foolish enough to complain. “But you must _look_ , demon. Do not avert your eyes.”

Crowley swears he can feel his pupils constricting into the narrowest slits, his Earthly vessel trying to protect the infernal creature it houses. The angel always cloaks his power here on Earth, like drawing a heavy velvet curtain to hide the sun. It’s necessary; a glimpse of an angel in their true power is enough to drive mortals to madness, or religious fanaticism, or both. Sometimes Crowley almost forgets what Aziraphale really is behind the tea and the books and the tartan — the very embodiment of their Creator’s perfection, and wrath, and love. It might be driving him a little mad, too. 

——————

“Why do you never use my name?”

Crowley gets over the forwardness of the question in record time, and smoothly arranges his facial expression into something more devil-may-care. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It’s always ‘angel’ this, and ‘angel’ that. Never ‘Aziraphale.’ You turn up one day and say ‘It’s not Crawly anymore, call me Crowley, and I don’t even blink, but it’s been what, over four thousand years now, and I can count the times you’ve said my name on my fingers.” 

“Are you pouting, angel?” Crowley needles him. “You must be _very_ drunk.” 

Aziraphale surveys the empty bottles around them. “No more than you.”

“What can I say? Maybe I like reminding you of the irony of our situation.”

He is pouting, bless him. “I think you’re just trying to get a rise out of me. People talk, you know.”

Crowley leans forward, grinning. “Do they, now? And what do they say?”

Aziraphale shifts back in his chair, crossing his arms. Not taking the bait. “Not my name, apparently.” 

He can’t help but laugh. For an angel, he can be a right bastard sometimes. Feeling reckless and flushed from the wine, and so full of fondness for his drinking partner, he clenches his fist under the table, nails digging into him palm, and says, “Very well. _Aziraphale_.” He handles it better than he had expected while this drunk. With the alcohol relaxing his body, it only feels like a punch in the gut. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a smile playing about his mouth. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

——————

“Say it again,” Aziraphale commands. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. “Now.” 

He draws a long, shaky breath. Bathed in celestial light, it’s getting harder to keep control. The name tangles around his forked tongue, tries to choke him as he speaks. “Azssiraphale.”

“That’s right, that’s very good,” he says, voice full of all the kindness and condescension befitting his nature. Crowley feels awash with shame; he’s not good, can’t be. He doesn’t mean to look down. He doesn’t mean to do a lot of things.

He especially doesn’t mean to scream when Aziraphale tilts his chin back up with his fingertips. 

Already so vulnerable, the light touch feels like a hundred white-hot needles at once, like a sterile scalpel cutting into him to remove what is tainted. Even when the touch is broken, he’s left gasping desperately, his heart hammering fight-or-flight even though he chooses neither. He almost collapses down onto his hands and knees, but Aziraphale told him not to look away.

“Pitiful, wretched thing.”

“Yesss,” Crowley hisses without thinking, growing hot around his ears when he realizes it. If Aziraphale asked anything of him right now, he’d probably agree. 

——————

It simply wouldn’t do for Aziraphale to hang around with those sorts of people, even by accident — Crowley well knew the dangers of keeping the wrong company — so it was a simple decision to come to the rescue. Nudging a bomb to demolish a church, that’ll be a nice little feather in his cap, probably a special commendation. The consecrated ground is uncomfortable, but after centuries of controlled exposure to heavenly grace almost directly from the source, he can handle it.

When he smugly hands Aziraphale his spotless bag, rare books not so much as dog-eared inside, he can’t resist letting their thumbs brush around the handle. It’s stupid and selfish, but what about this whole thing isn’t? He prepares himself, but even steeling every bone in his body (plus the ones that currently exist in the ethereal plane), he isn’t ready, because it isn’t anything like before. It still hurts, still overpowers him, but instead of a strike it’s pressure all over his body, knocking the air out of him and making it impossible to breathe until their fingers separate. He recovers as quickly as he can, casually asking the angel if he needs a lift, glad that Aziraphale is too stunned to notice his reaction.

It isn’t until later that he figures out what was different this time. The divine Love was there, as it always is. But this was Love intermingled with… love, lowercase. And gratitude. For him, personally, demon that he is. 

_Fuck._

——————

Tears are welling in his eyes, overwhelmed as he is by the unrelenting angel.

“Why do you weep, Crowley?”

Humiliation, fear, shame. Wanting, and knowing he is unworthy. “I’m not.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes flash cold like diamonds, like ice. “You may be the Serpent of Eden, servant to the Prince of Lies. But you shall not lie to me, snake.” He wipes a tear from Crowley’s face just as it falls. Crowley doesn’t pull away, lets it happen, succumbs completely to the blinding wave of _mercyjudgementgracewrathdivinitylove_. 

“So I ask you again, cursèd beast. In the name of your Creator, you shall answer. Why do you weep before an Angel of the Lord?”

The angel’s invocation tightens around his throat, forcing him to speak before he is ready. “It hurts,” he sobs. 

Aziraphale nods, golden halo of light bobbing with his curls. “Grace can be difficult to receive. The road to redemption is arduous and often painful.”

“Angel, Azsssiraphale, please,” he begs.

“ _I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgement,_ ” Aziraphale quotes sternly, stepping closer. Crowley shudders at the holy words, the millennia of translation and interpretation rendering them no less powerful when spoken by an Angel of the Host. The brightness makes his skin prickle, he wants to cover his eyes and hide his face. The angel, gazing down upon him with all of of Heaven’s fury, spreads his wings wide and fearsome, and then surrounds him.

————————

“I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Aziraphale frowns. “I meant no offense, my dear.” 

Crowley lowers his hand back down to the table, the hand Aziraphale had nearly just covered with his own, the hand he had just instinctively snatched away. He tries to think of something other than the old _it’s not you, it’s me_ cliche. “No, no, it’s nothing,” he says, wholly unconvincingly. 

“After all we’ve been though, Crowley, all we’ve been through _together_.” The angel purses his lips and places his own hands delicately in his lap. “I thought things could be different now. That we wouldn’t have to be so careful. I’m sorry if I… if I misjudged the situation.”

Crowley looks gloomily across the bookshop, across the table and the teacups and everything that is warm and safe about this place. “We still have to be careful, angel." Aziraphale starts to agree, but then: "No changing our basic nature.”

“Oh, aren’t you just in a _mood_. What about Our Side? 

“I’m still on Our Side. Always will be.”

“Good. Me too,” Aziraphale smiles, resting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, feeling the coiled tension there underneath his shirt and jacket. And then, just when Crowley thought he was safe, the blasted angel slides his hand down Crowley’s arm. As soon as he realizes what’s happening, he recoils, tries to pull away, but it’s too late. The angel has him by the hand, and without any warning or preparation he’s overtaken. Blinded and deafened by the pouring of divinity into the emptiness, he doesn’t know if it’s the pain of drowning or the pain of drawing breath after being pulled from the water. When he comes back to himself, gasping, Aziraphale is regarding him with smug vindication.

“There, it’s not nothing. You’re acting so strange, Crowley, whatever is the matter with you?”

“It _hurts_ , alright?” he says raggedly, kneading the knuckles of his hand with the other. 

Aziraphale’s face falls, puzzled. “It what?”

He emphasizes each word as if explaining something to a child for the hundredth time. “It hurts me, to touch you.” He waits for Aziraphale to say something, but it seems he’s finally stunned the prat into silence. “It hurts me to say your bloody blessèd name, angel. Too holy for me.” He flicks his forked tongue for dramatic effect, but Aziraphale is already recovered and talking.

“My dear boy, I’m— I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I never heard of such a thing.” He looks at Crowley expectantly, who only shrugs in return. “I know that none of this is exactly normal, but, well… is that normal?”

“You think I just run around pawing at angels, do you? How’m I supposed to know?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs, “it could be one of Hell’s closely guarded secrets.” 

Crowley scoffs. “Trust me, angel, it’s not in the employee handbook.”

Now Aziraphale gazes distantly across the shop, replaying old memories in his head. “All this time…”

“Yeah, I’m a real sucker for punishment,” he says, wishing he could stop the sentence halfway through, concluding weakly. By the Lords of Hell, let him leave it there.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says so softly, so kindly, and lays an equally soft hand on Crowley’s knee. Crowley glances down suspiciously. “No tricks. Please… tell me.”

“Not much to tell,” he lies. No use, Aziraphale could always see right through him, because Crowley wants him to. He sighs. Might as well. “Do you remember in the Beginning, angel?” 

Aziraphale perks up. Whenever their conversations had veered in this direction before, Crowley had always steered them firmly away. “Of course.”

The words come out steady but stilted, as if echoing from a long distance away. “Before there was an Earth, or stars, or matter, or anything. And we were there, and it was all that we knew. All that we needed. It was all there. You know what I mean.” 

“I know, Crowley.” The light, the safety, the joy. 

“Ignorance was bliss. And then when I Fell… when we all Fell, all that was gone. And we were empty. All of us empty and frightened, and Lucifer tried to help us, he tried to do it better, to show that he was superior, but he couldn’t, and he went into a rage…” He trails off, and Aziraphale rubs his thumb along the demon’s knee, trying to offer comfort. “Nothing could replace it.” 

“How you’ve suffered,” Aziraphale murmurs. “So far from grace for so long.”

Crowley shakes his head. “As close as I can bear.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, fingers tighten to make tiny grey lines on the fabric of Crowley’s black jeans. “Is that what you feel? Is that what causes you pain?”

“What better punishment? I can see it, I can feel it. But it’s not real. It’s not for me. Won’t ever be.”

“Divine love is unconditional,” Aziraphale insists. 

“Tell that to the damned,” he replies bitterly. “It’s completely conditional. You only get it if you fall in line. You weren’t there, in Hell before we even knew what Hell was.” He turns to look Aziraphale in the face, voice becoming deadly serious. “If I tell you something, do you swear never to repeat it to anyone?” Aziraphale nods intently, leans in. “Some of us tried to repent, once we realized what had happened.” 

Aziraphale’s voice is almost a whisper. “Did you?” 

Another shake of the head. “Sorry to disappoint you. I knew it was a one-way ticket. No sense in upsetting the boss. But they _begged_ , angel. It would break your heart. And no one was listening, or no one bothered to answer. We were shut off. Even after he forbade it, some of them prayed in secret for… well, years hadn’t been invented yet, but… it took ages for everyone to accept that they wouldn’t be forgiven.”

Aziraphale’s fingers flex again, and Crowley wishes above all else that he could just take the angel’s hand, that he could bury his face against his neck and let go. 

“May I?” Gingerly, Aziraphale reaches up and removes Crowley’s glasses, sky-blue eyes meeting his yellow ones . “I forgive you, Crowley,” he says with such agonizing sincerity that something in Crowley’s chest surges up into his throat. He opens his mouth, but Aziraphale cuts him off, knowing him too well. “Please don’t say anything smart. Let me help you. Let me show you Grace.”

“Too risky,” says Crowley immediately, the words coming out rushed and panicky. “The whole point of being unforgivable is that it simply can’t be done. It’s blasphemy. You’ll Fall. I won’t allow it.”

“Oh, please,” the angel answers. “No one’s watching. And if they are, I’ll simply be doing what angels do. Righteous smiting in the name of mercy and all that. Heaven and Hell will see it as a punishment… but what if it’s a gift?”

——————

“Ohh,” he breathes, letting the light settle into his pores. Here in the cocoon of Aziraphale’s wings, so carefully remaining just inches from his skin, he almost feels safe. It still hurts, but it’s bearable, the ache of a tight muscle being stretched again, of gentle pressure around his throat, reminding him that he is completely at his angel’s mercy. 

“Hear my words, demon,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is of the sweetest celestial music, ringing and reverberating inside of Crowley’s head. “Six thousand years ago, at the beginning of the world, on the very walls of Eden, you came to me crawling on your belly, debased and wicked. And so again you kneel before me now, needful, craving, hungry for what you cannot have.”

Like bells in sympathetic vibration, like a gong struck again before it stills, his words build in Crowley’s ears, roaring and compounding with holy truth. Aziraphale narrows his eyes and regards him scornfully. “Thou serpent, thou fiend, thou Fallen, thou agent of Hell, before whom do you prostrate yourself?”

The air is growing too close, thick with the angel’s power. The light is seeping into him. Crowley pants and chokes, a sheen of sweat on his chest and brow, a tightness growing deep within him. “You, Azssiraphale, only you.” The pain of the angel’s name blends exquisitely into all that he feels, a new shade of agony that he never knew existed before. 

Either his eyes are finally failing him, burned out by the light, or maybe he _is_ going mad, because something keeps shifting in his perception, the Earthly plane blurring into the ethereal. Like spots in his eyes after looking at the sun, the brightness is making him see something else, perhaps the angel as he really is, beyond words, though some of the old prophets had tried, describing visions of wheels and eyes and flames. And they weren’t wrong, but mortal eyes couldn’t see the whole picture. 

The angel smiles, as impassively cruel as an axe about to fall. “Put your forked tongue in service to my name, snake, so the Seven Archangels and the Lords of the Nine Circles might know your desperation. To whom did you come begging and shameless, aching for just a taste of what you’ve lost?” 

Vision blurring, he sees Aziraphale crowned and holding a scepter, the regalia of a Principality, gleaming and proud. Turning and turning, the cogwheels of the entire universe; cosmic matter swirling, planets orbiting, stars born and burning and dying upon the tracks built by angelic hands. Beautiful and terrible, hand of the Lord’s vengeance, flaming sword at the ready to strike evil where it stands. Watchful and knowing, overseeing all, looking deep inside him and reading him like a manuscript, charred around the edges but still legible. The angel is all around him, and _within_ him, stripping away the layers of infernal defenses, exposing Crowley’s doubts, his sins, his shortcomings, and allowing his light to spill into the cracks. 

“Say it, demon,” he commands. The tightness, the fullness inside Crowley grows with the angel’s knowledge of him, as if Aziraphale’s fingers are pressing in and prising him apart, moments from breaking, and he groans without thinking. 

“To you, Azira— aah!” He falters, the name like a knife twisting against his cheek. “Azssssiraphale, pleassse!” he hisses deliriously. The last shreds of his pride fall away and his eyes roll back in his head. He simply has to trust that the angel will not destroy him, and if he does, he could not ask for a more glorious end. 

Aziraphale stoops and reaches toward his face. The soft, perfect hands stop just shy of his skin. The air crackles between them, alive with energy, the lightning before the thunder. Slack-jawed, too frightened to move, blinded with tears, Crowley waits for the inevitable. The brightness surrounding him and inside of him is screaming to a crescendo, or maybe that’s his own voice, and then he sees it, the face of his angel, of his own personal purgatory, as precious as life itself, and if he’s going to die, let this be the last thing he sees before he burns to ash. 

“Beautiful child of God,” Aziraphale murmurs. He cups Crowley’s face in his hand and presses his lips to his damp brow.

He is open and bare at the bottom of the Pit, wings crushed under him, able to do nothing but scream and writhe in shame at his disgrace. Aziraphale can see him exactly as he is, laid waste before the angel’s Judgement, empty, tainted, black-hearted thing that he is, an affront to Creation. But Aziraphale’s relentless light still pulses through him, it courses through his veins, it rushes to fill the space between his atoms. There is no part of him that Aziraphale does not see, does not Know. _Beautiful child of God,_ he hears again in his head. _Beloved one._ And the light transforms and spills over him, the tightness clenched deep within his core releasing as he knows mercy, as he knows the ecstasy of love as in the Beginning, but for him, only for him.

It feels like an eternity, and it’s over in seconds. 

It takes no effort for Aziraphale to gather the demon’s wrecked and boneless body carefully into his lap with hands safely encased in soft white gloves. Crowley curls into him, clings to his arm, wet face pressed into his chest. It comes as second nature to soothe him, to stroke his hair, to whisper little comforts to slow and eventually stop the sobs and the shaking. It feels right, normal, natural. Divine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the musical work Salvation is Created by Pavel Tchesnokov. This is my first Good Omens fic in probably a decade. Comments make me happy. <3


End file.
